


The Hunger Songfic Challenge 8: Son House - Grinnin In Your Face

by BellaFuckingRockwell



Series: Bella's 10 Songfics for 10 Songs Challenge [8]
Category: David Bowie (Musician), The Hunger (TV 1997)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grinnin In Your Face, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Son House, Songfic, Songfic Challenge, suicide references, vulnerable!Julian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 17:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/BellaFuckingRockwell
Summary: I've done an old exercise that used to rattle around the LiveJournal fic communities. The exercise is that you put your music library on shuffle and you write a fic in a certain fandom based on the first 10 songs that come up. They're usually meant to be drabbles, but I personally don't do drabbles bc I'm a verbose mf so they're just a bunch of short fics instead. My chosen fandom is The Hunger TV show and pairing throughout is Julian/Drew. They're loosely linked but aren't meant to be linear. I've also been pretty liberal with some of them in terms of how much they're actually based on the song!As it's The Hunger, the themes throughout are pretty fucking dark and potentially triggering in places. I'll post separate warnings for each one, but as a rule they're pretty much all NSFW for violence and/or smut (varying degrees of graphic). 18+ only, should go without saying.DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely nothing. The characters and settings do not belong to me. I'm merely a little fish in a big pond trying to amuse myself. Good day Sir.Song 8: Son House - Grinnin In Your FaceSynopsis: Julian falls apart after his latest piece is poorly received.





	The Hunger Songfic Challenge 8: Son House - Grinnin In Your Face

Drew has seen the papers. The headlines. The journalists, with their smug half-grins in their greyscale headshots, sneering out from the page. They're proud of the awful things they say, their shitty puns, their stale wordplay. It makes her sick.  
The problem is, Julian has seen them too. And as a result, Drew hasn't seen Julian all day. It's hard to imagine you can completely avoid your partner when you share a living space, but given theirs is a massive abandoned jail, Julian can hide in cells, bleak communal shower rooms, passageways and subterranean routes Drew would get lost in. For the first couple of hours, she opted not to look for him. He wouldn't appreciate it while the inevitable, but particularly harsh, backlash on his latest piece was still so raw. The critics may spit careless words like “grotesque”, “monster”, “lunatic”, delighting in their outrage, goading the circus; but they know not what they do. They don't see how it hurts him, and they would laugh their disbelief if they heard that it did. Drew had been surprised at first too, thinking Julian cold and cruel and emotionally paralysed. It's a role he's perfected over the years, but it's just that: an act.  
Drew has been busying herself with emails, letters, chasing off the hungry, rabid media and saving the slithers of praise from fans and eccentric art collectors for Julian to look at when he's ready. Afternoon rolls around, and she starts to ignore the ever-wailing phone, tired of the tabloid vampires looking for Julian's “comment.” At some point, she makes coffee; it cools and then sits forgotten on the desk beside her as she types furiously. Night begins to settle, and Drew's eyes are heavy as she looks at the time and wonders where the day went. Still no Julian.  
She checks the bedroom first, wondering if he's decided to take himself to bed; he'll usually end up there early after a day like this, curled up beneath the sheets, eyes tightly shut, ignoring her when she asks how he's doing but letting her hold his hand. He isn't there.  
She continues the search, calling his name as she prowls the corridors, though she recognises it's likely a fruitless endeavour; with the size of this place, he could easily be half a mile away. She checks the cells on the second floor, the ones with the softest bunk beds, where he goes to think sometimes. No sign of him there. On the way out to the yard to search there, something makes her check the infirmary.  
She finds him sitting on the floor in the corner, knees to his chest, hunched over. He twitches as she enters, like he's vaguely aware of some distant noise, but he doesn't look up. She closes the door behind her with a soft click, relieved to have located him. “Julian?”  
No response. Given that he still seems to be in the midst of his grief, it strikes Drew as slightly unnerving that he hasn't barked at her to fuck off.  
She hesitates a moment, then, growing bolder, she takes a tentative step towards him. As she approaches, she notices he's holding something in his hand, something that gleams in the light. When Drew realises he has the sharp end of a scalpel pressed against his wrist, she swallows hard and quickens her pace, battling the panic thudding in her chest and her subsequent instinct to pounce, snatch it from his hands. When Julian's scared, or startled, he gets impulsive, like a cornered animal. That just won't do. Not right now.  
Instead, Drew lowers herself to the floor before him, the concrete cold and rough against her knees. Fights to keep her voice light, steady, as she says, “What are you doing, baby?”  
She eyes his wrist. The scalpel's blade lightly grazes the skin, his grip so tight around the handle his knuckles have turned white. No blood, thank god. Still, her mouth is suddenly bone dry.  
“May I have that, Julian?” Drew asks. Then, a little more urgently, “Please?”  
Julian still doesn't look at her, but there's no real resistance, as he hands the scalpel over. Drew tosses it away with as much force as she can muster, her eyes falling closed with relief as it clatters to the floor somewhere across the room. Away from him. She fights her urge to cry, to yell at him for even fucking thinking about doing that, leaving her here, just because of a few stupid reviews. Demand what the hell he was thinking. Why? Why would you fucking do that to me, Julian?  
He needs only raise his head slightly to answer her silent question. His eyes, eerie at the best of times with their mismatched pupils, are bloodshot and vacant, like a junkie nodding off into some untouchable world. There's no peace here, though, in his taut, twisted lips, in skin that has a slightly grey hue. He's spent years honing his craft, hiding his pain on a daily basis beneath the mask of a feared and admired psychopath, but today he's checked out. Today, he can't fight anymore.  
Drew holds herself fast, knowing she mustn't crumble along with him. Finding her strength from the unknown source she never fails to tap into during these moments, she reaches out to cup his face in her hands, pressing a tender kiss to the tip of his nose. “It's okay,” she whispers. “I'm here. I'm going to take care of you.”  
He doesn't shy away; doesn't react at all, even. Drew wonders if he's even fully aware she's there.  
She kisses him again, softly, on his lips this time, and he's cold and rigid against her. She runs her fingers through his hair, tangled, damp with sweat. “Come with me,” she whispers. “Let's get you out of here.”  
Julian lets her help him to his feet, and as she laces her fingers through his she thinks she feels him squeeze. His grip is limp as she leads him out of the infirmary; doesn't even seem to notice as she locks the door behind them. His clothes are rumpled, a small rip in his shirt, as if he's being clawing at himself in frustration. He hesitates a moment as Drew tries to lead him down the corridor, staring at her, his gaze slightly unfocused. When she gives him an encouraging tug, he gingerly begins to walk, trancelike, dazed. His palm is clammy against hers, and Drew has never felt quite so helpless, so heartbroken, never absorbed the devastation of another person so naturally, so deeply. She makes gentle circles against the back of his hand with her thumb, his palm clammy against hers, quietly reassuring, letting him know he isn't alone.  
As they reach the bathroom nearest to their bedroom, Drew leads him inside and starts to fill the tub for him. Julian has few vices in life that don't involve sex or violence, but one thing that never fails to soothe him is a hot bath. Drew has never quite been able to relax in the washrooms here, with their old showers that trickle and spurt erratic temperatures; with the baths she finds old, stale, uncomfortable, but he thinks they have a certain charm. He always has had a strange way of looking at things.  
She reaches up to shrug off the big jacket that seems to swallow Julian up in this state, and his shoulders, hunched and tight, begin to slacken at the sound of the running water. “That's it,” she murmurs. “Relax for me. Everything's going to be okay.”  
She believes it because she has to, yet she wonders if the message even registers with Julian. Still, he lets her open the buttons on his shirt, passive, but assists by moving his arms so she can remove it. Goosebumps rise on his bare skin as she continues to undress him, and he draws his arms around himself, whether cold or suddenly aware of his vulnerability she can't be sure. Once the tub is full, he climbs in with Drew's gentle guiding hand on the small of his back. She kneels beside him, watching as his heavy eyes close and a gentle breath seeps from his lips.  
“Is that better?” she asks.  
She doesn't entirely expect a response, but after a moment he nods. He looks so delicate, so tired. As if the life has been sucked clean out of him. Drew hates the fucking media, the power they have over him. If only they could see him right now, see what they've done. Bile rises to her throat at the thought that it might not even stop them.  
She dips her hand into the water, reaching for his. “It's not your fault not everyone understands you. Don't mind them. You know I love everything you do.”  
She doesn't expect this to make a blind bit of difference to him, but his lips twitch upwards, ever so slightly. He murmurs something, something that sounds almost like “thank you.” His body quivers slightly where his muscles are so tightly wound, pulled taut with fury and humiliation and grief, all the things that are sure to drive him to reckless violence and self-destruction over the next few days when the dust settles. The knowledge frightens her, but she dismisses it. For now, she has to focus on getting him through the night.  
She smiles, kisses his cheek; dares to hope she might be bringing him back. “Do you want me to wash your hair for you?”  
Though Julian nods, she sees the slight twitch in his eye; maybe a distant self-hatred for being so fragile, so needy, in these moments, so willing to collapse into Drew and let her take care of him. He's not good at needing, being dependent. It embarrasses him.  
“It's okay, Julian,” she murmurs, reaching for the jug he keeps nearby for this purpose. “I'm here.”  
His lips part; he's silent for a moment. Then, his voice cracked like he's parched, he says, “if you tell anyone about this, I will fucking kill you.”  
Drew fingers a cross against her heart. “I won't say a word.”


End file.
